


beautiful boy

by grandson



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Emotional Healing, Established Relationship, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Kageyama Tobio Angst, Kageyama Tobio-centric, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Minor Injuries, Pre-Relationship, Rivals to Lovers, Team Bonding, Time Skips, hi oikage nation, uhhh idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23767846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandson/pseuds/grandson
Summary: and there’s a scar on his cheek — it starts at the point just underneath his eyes and ends at the side of his mouth. maybe one day, he’ll be able to look into the mirror — look at himself, and not want to tear himself apart completely.kageyama tobio, oikawa tooru & a little thing about scars (emotional & physical) and healing. (together). rewritten.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio & Oikawa Tooru, Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 21
Kudos: 688





	beautiful boy

**_i. still a boy, still just a child. you’ve seen love in blurs, you don’t quite understand it. so far, it’s done nothing but hurt you._ **

It was _frightening,_ how well he could remember that day.

He could vividly — _so vividly_ — remember the oddest of details. It had rained, the night before— so there was still the barely-there sound of water, running down the sides of his house. It was achingly cold — he could remember dragging his nails over his goosebumps — a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

He _loathed_ it — how much his mind could recall.

A fly on the fridge, and the strange texture of the leftover rice, the way his socks clung to his feet — running his hands under hot water, calling Kazuyo-san, for only about a minute, gulping down cold milk. If Miwa was home— she’d have scolded him.

The shy wave to his neighbor, the crow on the telephone line, the puddles on the concrete — the low burst of irritation he felt once recalling he had a math class that day, the way excitement clung to his fingers at the thought of volleyball. A moth fluttering past his eyes, a cat weaving between his legs.

Obviously — there wasn’t much about the _school_ day he could remember, in particular. It was repetitive — the teachers droning, the students chatting, the throb at the back of his head.

A boy from a different class had spoken to him, a girl who sat behind him asked him for a pen — he had gotten an answer correct in math, for once — someone stepped on the backs of his shoes on accident. (Or, did that happen yesterday?)

Oh, but the _delight_ he felt, once the final bell had rung — _volleyball practice._

And this, this was familiar — the way his clothes slid over his skin, the weight of the ball in his hands — the flicks of his wrists, the sweat on his skin, the bursts of excitement in his chest — and the sound of Kindaichi’s laughter. It was wonderful.

But — he couldn’t remember Oikawa, on that day, the memories were few, far.

He was quiet — moving like a whisper, barely-there — in fact, Kageyama, well, _forgot_ about him, at least for a bit. It was easy to, with hands on his arm, and smiles to blink at.

(It was easy to ignore the uneasiness in his chest — with a pair of eyes trained to his neck, his arms, his hands).

But, eventually — he was pulled from the dark. And, in his solo-practices, he could remember watching him, from a distance, as he always did. Admiring him — the power condensed into his muscles, the predatory flickers of his hands. It never failed to take his breath away — watching him play, watching his serves, watching _him._

Time passed— and most of the other boys were leaving, by then. But it was routine for him, by then — to bow in front of their coach, and ask for just a _few_ more minutes of practice. Just a bit. In turn, their coach would always give him a tired smile with a nod of his head.

(He watched as Kindaichi and Kunimi — with tired eyes, tired smiles, gave him a wave and a nod as they left. He raised his fingertips in a goodbye, feeling his chest twist pleasantly, curling up to his throat.)

And, the time that passed was — a blur, at best. It was a bit of everything — of him setting, of him serving — watching Oikawa, transfixed by the sight of him. It made his wrists tingle — watching him throw the ball, the echo of his footsteps, his muscles tensing as he jumped, the curve of his back, the slam of the ball against the floor. _God,_ it was so _cool._

Again — he couldn’t _really_ happened in the next cluster of minutes. It was a haze, to be honest. But, he could recall himself — younger, shorter — working up the courage to go up to the older, taller boy. He was hunched over — heaving, sweaty, face red. Next to him, there was a basket, gaudy blue and completely empty — volleyballs at his feet, spread out over the court.

He could remember going up to him — a volleyball in his hands, a slight smile on his face, muttering something along the lines of: _“Oikawa-senpai,”_ and a pause, _”please teach me how to serve.”_

And, he hadn’t realized it then — not as an oblivious, sweet-spoken child — but there had been something so, _very_ wrong with Oikawa in that moment.

There had been, a look in his eyes — wide, unblinking — something distant, disturbed, his left eye twitching — staring at Kageyama, unfocused and glazed. He remained bent over, hands on his knees — breath held in his chest, throat flexing as he gulped.

He met his gaze — and his pupils shook, they moved from his face, to his hands, to his knees, to his feet, and back to his face for a few, long moments — he took a deep breath, swaying on his feet.

He couldn’t remember much — but he could remember the pain.

And _god,_ did it hurt.

It was as loud as a clap — resonating in the empty gym.

The feeling of Oikawa’s hand — warm, calloused against his skin. It was open-handed and heavy, leaving behind a bright, red welt. And his nails, uncharacteristically long, caught against his cheek.

He was quiet — didn’t make a sound, no little winces or gasps. He just — staggered backwards, shoes squeaking, curling a hand over his cheek, with eyes blown wide in surprise. A drop of red on the floor, and then another, another, another.

And — he didn’t want to remember what happened next, didn’t even want to try. At the back of his mind, there was a memory — pulled apart at the seams of Oikawa, letting out a low, quivering gasp. He was shaking. There was an apology — bit-off, with a wobbling voice, cracked syllables.

He could remember a body — next to his, a pair of shaking (god, why was he shaking?) hands coming up next to him. He pulled back — feeling a bit _too_ much in that moment.

And then he — bowed, and apologized for bothering him, and watched with clouded eyes as droplets of red stained the floor. He could remember — silence, from the other boy — who was breathing heavily, (looking back on it, he might have been crying).

Straightening his back — with the blood trailing down his cheek, his chin, his neck. He turned, and stepped out of the doors — going around the building, into the clubroom, a tissue pressed to his cheek — grabbing his schoolbag, he didn’t even bother to change. (In the distance, he thinks he might’ve heard the sound of Iwazumi yelling).

If he thought hard enough — he could make out the memory of him, at home — in front of the bathroom mirror. He clutched at the ceramic — with the cold air making him wince, the bright lights making him blink.

A fistful of tissues against his cheek — slightly damp, he watched the red seep through. He swallowed his spit — he took a plaster from underneath the counter and pressed it on — tossed his shirt into the hamper, hoping the detergent would wash the stains away.

And the last few thing he could remember was — skipping dinner, and crawling into his bed, wearing Miwa’s hoodie, and a pair of shorts, pulling the covers up to his chin. It was cold — and not for the first time, he wished Kazuyo-san would be back home, already.

**_ii. hardly a teenager, you go through the cycle of grief a dozen times a day. as far as you’re concerned, love is temporary._ **

It’s become a common thing, by now — avoiding himself — not looking at himself, whether it be in the mirror, or the reflection of his phone screen. It’s a stupid thing — not being able to look at yourself in the mirror — and he’s completely aware.

But — he just — just, can’t _stand_ it.

It disgusted him — looking at himself in the mirror, meeting his own eyes — the sight of his sleek hair, and his pale skin — the sight of _himself._ It made something sit in his stomach, low and hot — a feeling that burned the blues and greens of his veins.

(God, he’s a mess).

And he knows — he knows that if he voiced this to, well, _anyone,_ that they would laugh him off. Why? Because — black hair, pale skin, blue eyes paired with strong features, a sharp jawline, clear skin. _You’re like a model, Tobio-chan!_ a few of his relatives would exclaim, _If volleyball doesn’t work out, at least you’ve got a backup plan!_

He doesn’t understand — understand what they see in him. Looking in the mirror — he saw something — _wrong._ _He_ was wrong.

And it was the stupid _line_ on his face that made him feel like this. (And god, it was so ugly).

It was a relatively unassuming thing, really — nothing more than a line of faint skin, slightly silvery. And, it started just beneath his eye, close enough for an eyelash to brush against — ending at the corner of his lip. It curled around his cheek in an almost-perfect curve.

And he hated it — hated it, hated it, hated it so _much._ (He’s spent more than a dozen nights, scratching his nails against his cheek, turning his skin a bright red).

He covered it with makeup.

Poking around Miwa’s room — he looked through several of her large, plastic bins of makeup. He sorted through, well, _everything —_ her eyeliners, mascaras, expired foundations, blushes, broken highlighters and old lipgloss. He could’ve called her, he supposed — but it’s gotten harder, he thinks, talking to her.

Eventually — he settled upon a tube of — _white paint?_ he thinks at first, but no, upon closer inspection it was _concealer._ It was a dark pink at the top, the plastic slightly cracked, the labels peeling off. He put back her things — and retreated into his own room.

It was a hassle, at first — he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to slather his face with it or not. Eventually, after a few (dozen) tries, he managed to find a way for it to work. Sometimes, on the hot days, he would cover it with a plaster — he was a volleyball player, no one questioned it. At least, not often.

(He wondered what Kazuyo-san would think of him, now).

**_~~iii.~~ almost sixteen years old, and you have a dozen secrets pressed into the surface of your skin. your friends worry about you. their love is unconditional, you just don’t know it yet._ **

And — as _stuffy_ as it could be — the clubroom was, in all honesty, comforting. It didn’t require him to think, much — the constant chatter of his teammates (friends?) dunked him into a constant state of warmth. Even _if_ some of them were really, _really_ loud.

In fact, speaking of loud — “Hey, Kageyama! What’s that on your face?” Hinata asked — pausing from his place on top of Tanaka.

He paused — with his fingertips hovering over his shirt, just above the sixth button. In his chest, unease spread. He blinked, once, twice — and then at Hinata, with an eyebrow raised.

Kageyama twitched — lips quirking down. _”What’s on my face?”_ he repeated, eyebrows raising. In was a relief — that dread hadn’t yet clogged his throat. He watched — a little bemused, as Hinata leaned backwards, ever-so-slightly.

Hinata nodded — and the clubroom resumed their conversations, appearing to lose interest in their interaction, as they usually did. But — it was noticeably more quiet, a bit _too_ quiet, the paranoia whispered to him. He bit his lip.

(He could feel it — their eyes on him. Sugawara-san and his gentle, curious gaze and Yamaguchi, with slight concern colored on his face, a question in his eyes. Tsukishima glancing at him, a bit-too analytical and Nishinoya-san, with eyes a bit too knowing. He hated it).

Hinata nodded, again — and gestured to his own face, this time: “Yeah, on your face, see?” He said, pointing at him, before pausing — “wait, holy shit, is that a _scar?_ That’s so cool!”

And, _oh._ It must’ve... run off. He probably didn’t apply enough. (Fuck, he wanted to ram his head into the wall).

He felt — like a bug. A bug that was _stepped_ on — torn-open, insides smeared over the floor — a stain on the ground.

(They were looking at him, again, despite pretending not to. He could feel it. Narita-san’s gaze pinned to his back. He wanted to throw up).

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kageyama replied, evenly — going back to buttoning his shirt, willing his fingers not to shake. He might’ve thrown up in his mouth, a little bit.

Hinata sputtered, flailing his arms — and the background conversations became louder, drowning them out, almost. He was thankful, even if it wasn’t intentional. He ignored Hinata, even as he clung to his sides, folding the rest of his clothes. He left early.

(And, if anyone had noticed — well, they didn’t say anything. He was grateful).

He went home — shoelaces untied, shirt untucked, bangs greasy — the crow on the telephone line squawked at him, and his neighbor waved at him, the concrete was covered with ants.

It was cold — the bathroom tiles, the ceramic sink — he traced the curve of his scar in the mirror. In the shower, he sat down — let the hot, _hot_ water scald the skin of his shoulders until he pruned, until it got hard to breathe — (until he could hardly see his outline in the mirror, with steam clinging to the surface).

He put a plaster on his cheek — a square of white, covering most of his face. It felt sticky on his skin, comforting in the way (suffocating in another).

And, after putting his phone on charge, his laundry in the hamper, rearranging his shoes — he sat on the kitchen table, a towel around his shoulders, bare feet on the floor. It didn’t feel as good, eating — the soup in his mouth tasted bland, his fingers tingled uncomfortably. He felt strangely — empty.

(He reminisced — thinking about the sunlight, Kazuyo-san and Miwa with him, eating together — talking, arguing, laughing. A constant warmth, buzzing underneath the surface of his skin, making him feel pleasant down to his toes).

“Fuck,” he whispered, slouching down low into his chair, “fuck.”

(He was crying — the scar stung, his heart burned).

A few hours later, once he’d settled into his bed — he dared to take a peek at his phone, brimming with messages — his chest constricted.

**[5:09]  
Sawamura-san: Hey Kageyama. Just wanted to check in on you. You seemed upset earlier.  
Sawamura-san: You don’t need to tell me anything, I just want to make sure you’re okay. We’re worried about you.  
Sawamura-san: Eat something healthy when you get home.**

**[5:37]  
Suga-san: hey kageyama, did you get home okay?  
Suga-san: you seemed kind of upset earlier (in the clubroom) and i just wanted to check if you’re okay  
Suga-san: i don’t wanna pressure you or anything like that, but if there’s ever anything that’s bothering you, just know you can talk to me  
Suga-san: anyway, just be safe okay? **

**[5:49]  
Noya-san: KAGEYAMA  
Noya-san: KAGEYAMA  
Noya-san: LOOK  
Noya-san: ME AND ASAHI  
Noya-san: WERE GOING HOME RYT  
Noya-san: AND WE FOUND A CAT THAT LOOKS LIKE YOU  
Noya-san: LOOK  
Noya-san: _Image attached._ **

**[6:39]  
Tanaka-senpai: Kageyama serious question  
Tanaka-senpai: who’s the better senpai  
Tanaka-senpai: me Chikara hisashi or kazu  
Tanaka-senpai: it’s me right  
Tanaka-senpai: right?  
Tanaka-senpai: ur silence means yes  
Tanaka-senpai: if u say it’s me ill buy u a meat bun  
Tanaka-senpai: or a curry bun  
Tanaka-senpai: whatever u want **

**[6:57]  
Tsukishima: Here  
Tsukishima: _Image attached._  
Tsukishima: They’re the biology notes, Tadashi told me to send them to you **

**[6:59]  
Tsukishima: You’re ugly **

**[7:32]  
Dumbass: Hey r u mad at me  
Dumbass: I’m sorry if I hurt ur feelings  
Dumbass: Or made u feel bad  
Dumbass: About anything  
Dumbass: I shouldn’t have said that  
Dumbass: I’m really sorry  
Dumbass: I’ll make it up to u I promise  
Dumbass: Plz don’t hate me**

**[9:29]  
Dumbass: Goodnight Kageyama**

And, if his hands shook, just a bit and, if he teared up a bit, and if he smiled, a small, sweet thing — well, no one would know.

(And, if anyone noticed the tinge of pink on his cheeks as Hinata crushed him into another hug, and the small smile on his face when Tanaka-san stuffed a curry bun into his mouth — or when he flushed a red when they all laughed, well, they were all nice enough not to mention it. Even Tsukishima).

**_iii. in your twenties, now. your hair is longer and you’re a few inches taller. people call you a star and you are loved. loved from each and every angle. they can’t see your scar on tv._ **

It took — well, time. A lot of time, but, it happened. Eventually. (Inevitably, some would say).

And, it was cold — goosebumps on his arms, aches in his muscles — with sunlight pouring in from the windows, hot — especially on the blackness of his hair. A towel in his hands, a light, washed-out shade of turquoise. He sniffled, a droplet of water trailed down his throat.

A handful of messages from each of his friends greeted him — there were even a handful from Miwa, he mused. It was a little strange, he supposed, being about, what, eighteen-thousand kilometers away from home? A little strange, but nothing new.

But — _this_ was new. _All_ of this. Argentina, coupled with Oikawa-san — the feelings in his chest, waking up to a kiss, and the newfound hope for something more.

(Distantly, he wondered if Kazuyo-san would’ve liked him, he probably would’ve called him handsome).

He cleared his throat with a fist to his mouth — a light, pink flush spreading across his cheeks. And, if he rubbed the moisturizer into his skin a little angrily, well, no one was around to notice.

And, with an incomprehensible grumble, he stuffed a hand into his bag, rummaging around for the rest of his things and god, _why_ did he have a stick of eyeliner in there? He should probably get a different nail file, his ceramic one was a bit weird, he thought, pulling it out, alongside with—

A tube of concealer.

Slim, discreet. It was lightly-colored — of a more noticeably expensive brand, long-lasting and higher coverage. Jeez, he wonders what high-school him would’ve done to get his hands on it. He hadn’t used it in a _long_ while.

(At the back of his mind, there was a few, distant memories — ones of Iwaizumi-san, checking over his hands, and sometimes his shoulders, eyes focused on the side of his face, eyebrows pinched. He had quick eyes — Kageyama could never quite catch him staring).

He blinked, and then stared at it, a bit too intensely, Tsukishima might’ve said. And, there wasn’t that — that dull ache in the middle of his chest, the heat in his cuticles, a barely-there touch against his face, the hot disgust. He felt — nothing, there was nothing.

He straightened his back, eyeing it a bit warily, expression a bit pinched. He settled it onto the wooden floors, and pulled on a pair of socks, tucking them into his sweatpants. He stood up, made a grab for it, and then chucked it into the trash. He reached for his phone, closed the bedroom door behind him, and replied to Tsukishima’s messages.

(And that was that, he thought. That was that).

It was — nice, he thought, being in Argentina, in Oikawa-san’s house. He liked it. It was pretty, the windows were _huge_ and the curtains were sheer, basking them in constant sunshine. It was just — a mixture of browns, whites, shades of beige and off-white and green, if you counted the _endless_ amount of plants he had. It was pretty. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

And, stumbling against the floors a bit, he turned a corner — and then another one, went back a corner, and turned another corner. He liked it — but fuck, it was such a confusing house to navigate, at times.

Eventually, he found the lounge, and, as a result, found Oikawa-san. And, _fuck,_ the mere sight of him shouldn’t make him blush anymore, but it still did.

He looked — comfortable, Kageyama mused. In a pair of black sweatpants, and a threadbare white t-shirt. A tablet was balanced in his hand, and a pair of headphone were fitted around his head. He looked focused — chewing the edge of his fingernail, bangs brushing against his eyelashes.

(Oh, and he looked so, _so_ pretty, but Kageyama would rather kiss Atsumu-san than ever admit that).

He didn’t acknowledge Kageyama — eyes going unfocused for just a moment at the sound of his footsteps, but never tearing away from the match in front of him.

But, at the slight poking of his shoulder did he look up, reaching one, long arm to wind around Kageyama’s neck, pulling him down to give him a sweet, chaste kiss that left him a shade too-pink.

Kageyama huffed, ducked his head, and fitted himself underneath those arms — until he was practically lying on top of him, with his face pressed against his chest. Oikawa didn’t even move.

But, then there was a hand on the back of his head, and a kiss pressed to the top of his head. A hand rested on his back, and slid underneath his shirt — halfway up his back, settling there. It was a touch that made him shiver, just barely. He felt Oikawa smile against him, anyway.

And, his attention remained on the tablet for a few more minutes — before eventually clicking it shut, and wedging it in-between the couch cushions, sliding the headphones down, around his neck.

He tilted his head back and sighed, breath heavy — bringing his hands up to card his fingers through Kageyama’s dark hair. (Soft, he thought, it was so soft).

Eventually, with gentle motions, he urged Kageyama to lift his head up — and pressed a quick, short kiss to his pink lips. He laughed — a brief, sweet sound — at the bright flush that spread across his cheeks.

“You’re so tan, now,” Oikawa mused, smoothing his thumbs over the surface of Kageyama’s cheeks — who didn’t respond, just let the older rub circles underneath his ears. It was only when he stopped, abruptly, that Kageyama let out a small, confused hum.

He eyed the other — who was looking at him, expression a little pinched, a bit confused, eyebrows furrowed — with a thumb hovering over his cheek.

Kageyama remained quiet — letting Oikawa’s hand rest underneath, holding his chin in place — before settling it on top of his forehead, fingers braced on the curve of his eyebrow. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and closed it.

“Did...” He started, a bit soft, a little hesitant, “Did I do that?” He asked, quiet, a little contemplative. Kageyama wanted to sigh. He nodded, as much as he could, with a hand fitted underneath his chin.

Oikawa’s eyebrows raised, and he gaped for a moment, shutting his mouth with a clack, throat flexing, tongue peeking out to wet at his dried lips. (A nervous habit, his mind supplied).

It was best to try and _stop_ the flow of Oikawa’s thoughts, Kageyama learned, rather early on — because if you don’t, he’ll think, and think, and think and god, he _never stops thinking._ But before he could—

“Can I?” He asked — a bit shy (he still wasn’t looking at him in the eye). Kageyama just blinked at him, and it was enough for him — and a gentle, calloused thumb brushed against the skin of his cheek. It was careful, considering. Kageyama didn’t wince. And, honestly, it felt—

It felt nice. (Kageyama has been on the receiving end of a lot of Oikawa’s nice touches, lately).

“Why...” He started — and god, he finally made eye-contact with him, “Why am I _just_ noticing this?” He asked — a little breathless. Man, Kageyama could literally _see_ the wheels in his head turning. He flicked his forehead.

“I used to cover it, a lot. With concealer, mostly. I would wear a bandage, sometimes. It’s not noticeable in the summer, if I get tan enough, you can barely see it. It’s really faded, now, though.” Kageyama explained, a little more than necessary, but, Oikawa _needs_ more, he needs to know the whole thing. And Kageyama could give that to him, at least right now.

He watched Oikawa blink, once, twice, and a small little, “Oh,” left his lips. A swipe of his fingers underneath his eye, Kageyama watched as his lips wobbled, a little bit.

“Sorry,” he started, a little sound, just above a whisper, “I ruined your face. I know I said you were ugly, but you have a really pretty face, Tobio-chan. I’m sorry for ruining it,” he said, whispered a bit too-quick.

“I’m really sorry.” He said, lips twitching into a frown, fingers flexing as they moved away from Kageyama’s face—

but Kageyama didn’t let him.

And he grabbed that hand with a firm, but still gentle grip. And, fuck, he almost _slapped_ himself, but he settled Oikawa’s outstretched palm against his cheek, watching with a bit of amusement as his eyes flashed with surprise. He doesn’t pull away. (Good, Kageyama wouldn’t have let him pull away).

Kageyama reaches for the underside of Oikawa’s chin, and makes him look at him — with a small, barely-there smile on his face.

“You saying I’m not pretty anymore?”

It dissolves, just like that — that disgusting, gloomy atmosphere.

He watches Oikawa-san sigh, a little breathless, with a bit of a laugh— before he’s pulling up against his shoulder, arms wound around his back. “Fuck,” he whispers, still laughing a bit, “Tobio-chan, you’ll be the death of me.” And if he’s shaking a bit, well, Kageyama doesn’t mention it.

“Fuck, no, of course you’re still pretty,” he says, smiling a bit against his temple, “You’re super pretty, Tobio-chan. I wouldn’t be dating you, otherwise— _ow!_ Kidding, kidding.”

It’s quiet for a moment, before he says, hardly above a whisper—

“You’re my beautiful boy,” and Kageyama’s chest hurts in the _best_ way.

**Author's Note:**

> that was so fun to write!! it isn’t my best work, and i’ll definitely be rewriting some of the sections until i’m satisfied (which i’ll never probably be) but regardless, i hope at least someone liked it! if u did, please tell me why, and if u didn’t, tell me why, too! anything & everything is appreciated so much, thank u for reading! take care <3
> 
> edit: rewrite some sections my ass i rewrote the entire thing,,, hopefully u guys like this one better. (dec 6 2020)
> 
> also u can find me on twitter at [r1c3c0r3](https://twitter.com/r1c3c0r3) !


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